If Fates were Cruel
by Melidell
Summary: Ebony is ready to take on the Archdemon, hell she's even ready to accept that Morrigan is going to have Alistair's God baby. But what she isn't ready for is being thrown off FortDrakon. Without the Warden to keep everyone focused, will they ever find her?


**Authors Note**

**This is a short fluff that I jotted down, I know it isn't brilliant and kinda cuts off, but I may add more to it. Not now of course, give me some time for 'Priorities and Perfection' to take off. But I will probably be adding more fluff writing whenever the desire prods me quite rudely towards my computer. But this for now is just a one-shot, and rather random as usual.**

**Please write up a quick review to make my day :)**

* * *

Ebony looked over her shoulder to see Alistair gazing at her, his eyes filled with respect. A respect that she did not deserve. Yes, she had offered to kill the archdemon, but the logical part of her brain screamed for her to run, to escape, to _survive_. Of course she trusted Morrigan, even if the ritual had sounded fake from the start. Sex as a last resort? Who would've guessed . . .

But now wasn't the time to wander what would happen if the ritual had failed, because if she did, she'd never be able to destroy the last bit of life in the monster, the only thing keeping her alive for certain. Taking a deep breath like Sten had taught her and positioning Spellweaver correctly in her hands so that she wouldn't trip while she ran towards the Archdemon, who was already attempting to raise its majestic and hideous head. How embarrassing that would be, and the song Leliana had promised to be a mantra for mages everywhere would be a comedy. Darting across the bloodstained battlefield (a feat Zevran would be proud of) while trying to avoid the decapitated bodies of darkspawn, dwarves, elves and humans alike, Ebony finally felt the fear start to grow. Almost paralyzing her if not for her sprinting gallop towards what looked like certain death. As her feet felt like they were going to freeze on their own accord, she felt a comforting presence. Sire was running beside her, joining his master for one last glorious charge against the Blight. If all went well, she'd been soaking in a hot bath sprinkled with Orlesian oils by morning, the Archdemon slain and her, a hero. But fate had a funny way of acting with her, and although she could picture herself, glorious and tired, a miniature dragon head perched atop her sword, she couldn't shake a feeling of dread, that something bad was going to happen. Something uncalled for and very bad.

But now was not the time. Raising Spellweaver in the air, trying not to drop it as she gasped for breath, Ebony set her face into a determined grimace, not bothering to look back at her companions. They were all there, arriving not long after she had delivered a fatal ice and lightning spell that had finally knocked the Archdemon down. They had hugged her and kissed her, told her that she deserved an award bigger than anything that anyone had been granted before. Although she only loved one of her companions in a way that demanded a future together, she still was sad that the rest would all part ways, and this knowledge tore at her heart. But it would happen, even kind, sweet and oblivious Alistair would realize that despite being king of all Fereldan, he would not escape out of Ebony's everlasting shadow. Either they would leave, to make their own marks on the world away from her glory or she would.

Because she would be the one who slayed the Archdemon, and lived.

Muttering a quick rejuvenation spell to make her last act against the Blight slightly more dramatic than a blood splattered mage trying to push a sword through an Archdemons skull without much effect, Ebony let out a war cry. Not as amazing as the real warriors in her group, but frightening enough to her own ears, it echoed along the walls of Fort Drakon, and she could've sworn it travelled further, reaching the ears of the soldiers in the city.

And down travelled her sword as it penetrated the Archdemons mighty head, spurting blood across her already ruined light leather armor that she had been gifted by her companions as a surprise, covering her with its evil stench. Light enveloped her as she struggled to pull the sword loose, how awful would it be if she had lost the only Arcane Warrior blade she had come across in Fereldan? But it seemed to be jammed, and the more she tugged, the more it seemed to stick. The light grew brighter and she wondered if she should clear off and let the mysteries of the world do their thing, but the damn sword was special! And if an exploding archdemon didn't ruin it, what would?

"Ebony?" she heard Alistair yell, "Please tell me what you're doing?"

"I want my sword," she managed to huff back, pulling with all her might.

Finally it came loose and Ebony let out a sigh of relief, just before the light seemed to explode inside of itself and carried her into the air. The sword was wrenched out of her hands and fell towards the stone below. "Andraste's ass," she swore as she was thrown upwards by the sudden blast of energy. Spinning around so that she could try and prevent herself from hitting any barrier of some kind, Ebony was gifted with the sight of the city below her, ravaged by the Darkspawn horde, buildings still on fire among the ruins. Eyes widening, she desperately tried to turn back, seeing her companion's horrified faces before disappearing down the side of the tower, screaming curses all the way.

* * *

"They never found her body," Zevran said blankly as Leliana burst into tears for the hundredth time that day. Alistair stood, frozen, his eyes glassy and unseeing. It had been so sudden that he had still not grasped the fact that his friend was truly dead, or that the Blight was over. Wynne sat silently by the window, contemplating her thoughts while gazing out at the blood ridden streets below, the death of a girl she had considered a daughter was giving her much to think about. Shale and Sten waited in the corner of the room, not sure on how to act in the current situation, but their remorse was evident to their fellow companions, although hidden. Even Sire had graced them with his grieving presence, accompanied by a very drunk Oghren who was at the moment, sitting on the floor humming. The only person that was not in the room was Morrigan; she had disappeared shortly after Ebony's untimely accident.

"She's a mage! She must have casted some magic spell to let her fly . . . or something to make the ground covered in pillows!" Alistair finally burst out, he was confused that their unbeatable mage had simply fallen off a tower after slaying an archdemon, and disappeared.

"She was exhausted Alistair, the fight had taken a lot out of her. She would've needed time to recover before being able to cast a spell, even a simple one. And sadly, more time than it takes to fall off a building," Wynne snapped, her patience thin.

Then, realizing her blunder as startled faces stared back at her, Wynne softened her voice, "But the fact that her body has not been recovered gives me hope that she may still be alive. Mortally wounded and confused perhaps, but alive nonetheless.

"Then I propose we set out on our own adventure to find her, no? That is the heroic thing to do I'm sure!" Zevran cried out, a grin blossoming across his handsome elven features.

"If It is dead, then many will be disappointed, and grudging as I am to say this, I will be one of the many. I will join you, painted elf, in the search for It."

"Yes. I will come as well." Sten agreed, "My Kadan needs me if she is alive."

"Are you insane?" Wynne asked worriedly, "She could be anywhere!"

"Count me in," Leliana sang, hope filling her eyes as she ignored the old woman.

"Don't even think that you'll be able to leave me behind!" Oghren burped loudly, suddenly looking quite sober.

"I suppose," Alistair muttered, "that I am coming with."

"Maker protect us all," a sarcastic drawl called out, "if the king himself leaves Fereldan in the hands of his **wife**."

All eyes turned to the poised woman, her face set at an impenetrable mask. Although a smile played across the corners of her lips, two blue steel eyes betrayed her coldness.

"Anora," Alistair grunted, more confident now, "another Archdemon itself cannot stop me from searching for a friend."

"And _lover?_" Anora spat, the word leaving her mouth like poison.

But Alistair simply looked confused, while the dog let out a throaty chuckle.

"I think you have the wrong man, my Queen," Zevran spoke lightly, but there was a hint of jealousy that tinged his voice, "the Warden, was _my_ amore."


End file.
